Пригоди Шерлока Холмса

           "Frankly,then,madam,Idonot." 

           "Youthinkthatheisdead?" 

           "Ido." 

           "Murdered?" 

           "Idon’tsaythat.Perhaps." 

           "Andonwhatdaydidhemeethisdeath?" 

           "OnMonday." 

           "Thenperhaps,Mr.Holmes,youwillbegoodenoughtoexplainhowitisthatIhavereceivedaletterfromhimto-day." 

           SherlockHolmessprangoutofhischairasifhehadbeengalvanized. 

           "What!"heroared. 

           "Yes,to-day." Shestoodsmiling,holdingupalittleslipofpaperintheair. 

           "MayIseeit?" 

           "Certainly." 

           Hesnatcheditfromherinhiseagerness,andsmoothingitoutuponthetablehedrewoverthelampandexamineditintently. Ihadleftmychairandwasgazingatitoverhisshoulder. TheenvelopewasaverycoarseoneandwasstampedwiththeGravesendpostmarkandwiththedateofthatveryday,orratherofthedaybefore,foritwasconsiderablyaftermidnight. 

           "Coarsewriting,"murmuredHolmes."Surelythisisnotyourhusband’swriting,madam."